


Mightier Than the Sword

by shoebox_addict



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Drinking to Cope, Humor, Literature, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Religious Discussion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 15:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21057014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoebox_addict/pseuds/shoebox_addict
Summary: In an official accounting of the facts, Aziraphale would state that the first thing he did upon reading theHis Dark Materialsomnibus was get in touch with Heaven. In reality, the first thing he did was reread it in its entirety. To his dismay, it was just as enjoyable the second time around, if not moreso.





	Mightier Than the Sword

**Author's Note:**

> Michael Sheen narrates the _Book of Dust_ audiobooks. This fact got me thinking...

_The Year of Our Lord, 2000_

Aziraphale first noticed the book in a shop window. He was heading home after a good, old-fashioned Sunday roast, which he didn’t indulge in often enough. It was easy, he thought, to get so caught up in the new restaurants on offer that one forgot the simple pleasure of a pub roast. He’d had _two_ Yorkshire puddings, because he was that sort of angel, and he was feeling pleasantly full. As much as he wanted to get back to the bookshop and put his feet up, he always found it difficult to resist the pull of other warmly lit bookshops. The possibility of acquiring more volumes for his own collection, or of simply finding an engaging story to keep him company that evening, brought him to the window. The thick volume he saw presented there forced him inside the shop. 

He recognized the title as a reference to _Paradise Lost_, which piqued his interest. That interest only grew when he discovered the book was labeled as children’s literature. He made it halfway through the synopsis before marching up to the till and purchasing the book, glancing over his shoulder the entire time. All the way back to his own shop, Aziraphale clutched the paper bag to his chest, expecting to be set upon by Heaven’s goon squad at any moment. 

By some miracle, he made it to the shop unscathed and slipped inside. He locked the door behind him, though he knew that wouldn’t stop Gabriel or Sandalphon. Michael wouldn’t even deign to use the door. But turning his key and plopping it in the pocket of his jacket gave Aziraphale a false sense of security, and he was willing to settle for that. Just being back inside his shop, with its comforting blanket of dust and actual tartan blankets, made him feel more at ease. 

Aziraphale believed strongly in creating the proper atmosphere for reading a new book. He took care in choosing each tome that he read, and he felt it only proper that he take care in arranging his reading experience as well. So he set his purchase on his desk and made a cup of cocoa. He swapped his jacket for his cardigan and settled into his chair. And when he was finally comfortable, he carefully slipped the book out of the paper bag. It looked so brazen, just sitting there on his desk. After a moment, Aziraphale bustled off into his shelves and returned with a book of hymns. He removed the hymnal’s dust jacket and folded it around his new book. Then he began to read.

The next time Aziraphale was aware of the world around him, it was broad daylight. He turned the final page and sat back in his chair, blinking against the bright sun streaming through his window. 

“Oh, dear,” he said, in a very small voice. “That was rather good.”

* * * * * *

In an official accounting of the facts, Aziraphale would state that the first thing he did upon reading the _His Dark Materials_ omnibus was get in touch with Heaven. In reality, the first thing he did was reread it in its entirety. To his dismay, it was just as enjoyable the second time around, if not moreso. Halfway through his third read, the binding of the book broken and several pages dog-eared, Aziraphale had to physically separate himself from the book. He sat back in his chair and removed his spectacles, a horrible feeling of recognition blooming below his ribs. The church in this story bore a frightening resemblance to Heaven itself.

There were several things Aziraphale could do about this realization. (1) He could ring up an old friend of his and tell him how he was still worried he was doing the bad thing, even after all these years removed from Eden. (2) He could push it to the very back of his brain, drop the book off in an Oxfam donation box, and call it all a wash. (3) He could tell Heaven. That was the one he ought to do, of course. 

After a full day of pacing through his shelves, glancing nervously at the book on his desk each time he passed it, Aziraphale convinced himself that he did, in fact, need to contact Heaven. It was part of his duty, after all, as a principality on earth, to inform his superiors of blasphemous writings. At least, that was the justification he’d given Gabriel when the archangel asked why he’d purchased a bookshop.

Though he considered the book a real threat to humans’ faith and devotion to the Almighty, Aziraphale decided it was probably not a big enough threat to take to the Metatron. Instead he requested a meeting with Gabriel, and then he went to sit down because after all his pacing he wasn’t looking forward to the meeting at all. 

Gabriel was in Regent’s Park the next morning, jogging in a grey track suit that showed off the trim, muscular build of his human form. Though he would not admit it to anyone (at least not for several more years), Aziraphale greatly disliked meeting with Gabriel. Part of this dislike, he thought, was down to how much he empathized with humans after spending so much time with them. Most humans hated their bosses, and Aziraphale seemed to have absorbed that feeling and made it his own. Another, even larger part of this dislike, was the fact that Aziraphale hated jogging. And Gabriel was always jogging.

“You know,” said Gabriel, as Aziraphale jogged up alongside him. “You might try out some athleisure wear, just for these meetings of ours. These track suits come in all sizes.” 

Aziraphale prayed for patience. “I appreciate the suggestion, but I’m quite comfortable in these clothes.”

“Really?” said Gabriel, casting a skeptical eye over Aziraphale’s form. “The waistcoat looks a little snug to me.”

“Yes, well,” said Aziraphale, biting his tongue. “I asked for a meeting to discuss some blasphemous literature I’ve discovered.”

“Oh?” said Gabriel. “Please, fill me in. I think this might be the first time you’ve actually reported questionable writings, so I’m all ears.” 

“I’ve recently come upon a series of books that portray the church as an oppressive entity, and God herself as a merciless tyrant,” said Aziraphale. He was sweating a bit, along his hairline and under his arms, and he wasn’t sure whether this was due to the jogging or the content of his report. “Moreover, these books are actually marketed to children.” 

“Huh,” said Gabriel. “I’m actually sort of impressed. Sounds like the other side saw what we were doing with those Narnia books and decided to respond.”

Aziraphale stumbled a bit at the mention of Narnia. The archangels adored these books and were particularly proud of the inspiration they’d bestowed on C.S. Lewis to write them. If _The Sound of Music_ was their favorite film, then Narnia was definitely their favorite book series. 

“So, you didn’t know about these books?” he asked. “They seem like the sort of thing that might pop up on your radar, as it were.” 

“Isn’t that your job?” said Gabriel, pointing both index fingers in Aziraphale’s direction. “To alert us to these things? I mean, you can’t expect us to keep up with every little story the humans come up with. Most of them are boring, for one thing.” 

“No, I suppose not,” said Aziraphale. He pressed a hand to his abdomen, where a painful stitch was growing. “What...that is, should I do something about these books?”

Gabriel shrugged, clearly unconcerned. “I dunno. I guess if you’re really worried you could buy some Narnia books and set them up in your shop. You know, spread the word? Fight words with words. Don’t the humans have a saying about that?”

“The pen is mightier than the sword,” Aziraphale quoted. 

“That’s the one,” said Gabriel, chuckling a bit. “Total nonsense, of course.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, feeling exhausted in more ways than one. “Of course.”

Gabriel came to a sudden stop and Aziraphale stopped as well, grateful for a moment to catch his breath. The archangel clapped a hand on his shoulder and gave him a big, broad, false grin.

“Thanks for keeping us updated, Aziraphale,” he said. “And thanks for the meeting request. It’s been a while since I’ve been jogging, and I always forget how great it feels. Bye for now!”

With that, Gabriel took off down the path at a speed that even professional runners would find difficult to keep up with. Aziraphale staggered to a nearby bench and sat down heavily, still clutching his side. As the cramp slowly eased, he considered how meaningless the meeting had been. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but he’d certainly hoped for more of a reaction than that. A familiar feeling stole over him, the feeling that his concerns were not the concerns of Heaven. He was, he supposed, a rather poor angel.

* * * * * *

Crowley came swanning into the bookshop at a most inopportune time, as was his wont. Aziraphale was never sure how he managed to make his visits so ill-timed, but it was likely demonic intuition. On this particular occasion, Aziraphale was about to purchase several box sets of _The Chronicles of Narnia._ He’d been laboring over the decision for hours, not wanting to bring the books into his shop, but not wanting to disobey Gabriel’s order either. He had finally convinced himself that he could hide them fairly well on some crowded shelves when he heard a familiar voice at the front of the shop.

“Angel? You in here?” Crowley called out. “I’ve had one of the most boring weeks of my life and I’ve brought some wine.” 

Aziraphale sighed, knowing that the implied invitation should not sound as enticing as it did. He didn’t waste time in resisting, however, because he knew Crowley wouldn’t just go away. So he removed his spectacles, closed the webpage, and went to find Crowley. The demon was strolling aimlessly around the shop, dragging one long finger across the spines of Aziraphale’s precious books. He was wearing a three-piece suit, impeccably cut, and his hair was sticking up in a way that young men were finding fashionable just then. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and stepped out of the back room.

“We’re closed,” he said. “Didn’t you see the sign?”

Crowley snorted. “Nice try. Up for a tipple?” 

“Perhaps,” said Aziraphale. It wouldn’t do to agree straight away. “Why was your week so boring?”

“I’ve been assigned to influence this banker in the city,” said Crowley. “Something to do with tech companies, I’m a bit foggy on it all. Anyway, it’s disgustingly easy work. I hardly need to sway him at all. Looks like he got Hell’s memo directly, no extra influence required.”

“Despicable,” said Aziraphale, shaking his head. 

“And b-o-oring,” said Crowley, drawing out the word. He held up the bottle of wine. “Which is why I brought this. It’s Friday night, and you’re really the only one I can talk to about work. So, what do you say, angel? Feel like getting drunk?”

_Goodness, yes,_ Aziraphale thought, rather emphatically. But he tried not to let his eagerness show, settling for a prim and slightly disapproving smile. “I suppose. It’s not as though I was doing anything important.” 

“Oh, no?” said Crowley. “Are things just as dull for you right now?”

“In some ways, yes,” said Aziraphale. Crowley was strolling past his desk now, and Aziraphale silently willed him to pay it no mind. But it seemed that whenever Aziraphale wished Crowley would do something, Crowley did the opposite. Accordingly, Crowley paused and tipped his sunglasses down his nose. 

“What’s this?” he asked, bending down to peer at the page. His eyes widened and he flipped the book closed, letting out a bark of laughter when he saw the cover. “Angel, why are you hiding this book inside a different jacket?” 

Aziraphale frowned at him. “You know why.” 

“Yeah, s’pose I do,” said Crowley, smirking at him. “Pullman was one of mine, you know.”

Aziraphale gasped, surprised by the admission and embarrassed that he hadn’t made the connection sooner. “Is that how he got so many of the details right?”

Crowley nodded, looking quite smug. “I had a bit of fun, too. The daemons are inspired by a da Vinci painting. That one with the woman and the weasel?”

“Good Lord, I should have known,” said Aziraphale. He bustled over to the desk and picked up the book, sheepishly removing the decoy book jacket. “I only have this for research, just so you know. This is a very wicked book series, and I thought Heaven ought to know about it.”

“Really?” said Crowley, grinning at him. “Just a bit of research? I dunno, angel, the pages look a bit worn. Were multiple readings required, then, to make sure it was really wicked?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, hoping that the burning sensation in his cheeks wasn’t actually showing. “Just as the Bible requires multiple readings, sometimes one must reread a wicked book to truly study its wicked ways. Especially if one is writing a report for one’s superiors.”

“Right,” said Crowley, nodding slowly. 

“Just had to get all the details down.”

“Of course.” 

“This is all part of my job as principality, you know.”

“Well, certainly.” 

“I’m looking out for Heaven’s interests.”

“You like the books, don’t you?” 

“Oh, hush!” said Aziraphale, glancing nervously toward the window. Then he stared at Crowley, and Crowley stared back at him, until Aziraphale crumbled. “Well, perhaps I do.” 

Crowley let out a hoot of laughter, slapping his knee. “Of course you do! Of course you bloody do!”

Aziraphale wrung his hands anxiously, glancing back toward the shop’s front door. He was certain that Gabriel and Sandalphon would walk in at any moment, and he would be found with this blasphemous book, talking to a literal demon. What on earth was he thinking? 

“Right, so, did you report it to Heaven?” Crowley asked, when he’d got a hold of himself. “What did ol’ Gabriel have to say about this one?”

Aziraphale sighed. “He couldn’t care less. I thought they might know about the books already--”

“What gave you that idea?” said Crowley, guffawing anew. “Didn’t you tell me that Gabriel came in here once and couldn’t work out how books operated?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, pinching the bridge of his nose as he recalled the moment. “He opened a book and placed it on his head, thinking that perhaps the words absorbed through one’s skull.”

“You see?” said Crowley. “None of them put any stock in these bits of paper, not like you do. So why would they think a book is any threat to them?”

“The Bible is a book,” Aziraphale protested. 

“Yeah, but it’s one they had a hand in creating,” said Crowley. “Of course they’d care about that one. But even then they’re not too precious about it. Look at all the different versions that have cropped up.” 

“You’re right,” said Aziraphale, miserably. “I tried to explain, once, and they all gave me blank stares. They couldn’t tell a King James from a Protestant Bible if they tried.”

“There you are.” 

“Do your people care about books?” Aziraphale asked. “I mean, do they care that you inspired Pullman to write this, this...saga?”

“It’s pretty low on their agenda,” said Crowley, shrugging. “But then, so are most of my misdeeds. I’ve got to take credit for the big stuff or else they’d drag me back to Hell. No one appreciates good work these days. Did I tell you about the M25?”

“Yes, yes,” said Aziraphale, waving him away. “If they don’t care, why would you go to the trouble of bringing these books into existence?”

Crowley made a series of noises that sounded as though a frog were trapped under his sternum. Finally, he formed words. “No reason, really.”

“Did you feed him the title? I thought you hated _Paradise Lost._”

“That’s only because Milton thinks the serpent was Satan in disguise,” said Crowley, repeating lines from an argument they’ve had for centuries. “He wasn’t there, who gave him the right to write about it?”

“I might argue that it was you, my dear,” said Aziraphale. “Spreading knowledge and all that.” 

“Shut up,” said Crowley. "Do you want to get drunk with me or not?” 

Aziraphale relented, switched off the lights with a snap of his fingers, and led Crowley to the back room. He brought out two glasses, made himself comfortable, and suddenly three hours had passed. It was a predictable pattern that had been repeating for decades, ever since they’d both settled in London. Before that it was chance meetings on assignment, or Crowley seeking out Aziraphale for an exchange of work per their agreement. Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, but they’d been seeing a lot more of each other in the latter half of the twentieth century.

After three hours and as many bottles (they’d dipped into Aziraphale’s personal collection once they’d finished what Crowley brought), Aziraphale was properly sozzled. He had the wicked book clutched to his chest and was running his fingers along its spine. They’d been talking about other things, about the wankers Crowley was influencing and the rude customers Aziraphale had had to deal with recently. But now the angel’s thoughts turned back to the book.

“You’re in here, you know,” he said, tapping the book’s cover. “You’re the...the Dust, I suppose.”

“No, no, Dust is the apple. Or something. I’m Mary Malone.” 

“I see,” said Aziraphale, wide-eyed. Now he would have to reread the story just to examine things from that angle. 

"Had to correct the record a bit. Make up for Milton's mistakes."

"Yes, of course."

“Who d’you think Gabriel is?” said Crowley, with a crooked grin. 

“Oh, I...I couldn’t begin to…” Aziraphale stammered, sitting up straighter in his chair. 

“I reckon he’s Mrs. Coulter.”

Aziraphale tried to stop himself from laughing but failed in the end. He covered his eyes with one hand and the book slid down to his lap. “Oh, dear. Oh, you mustn’t say things like that.”

“I know, that’s why I say them,” said Crowley. Aziraphale uncovered his eyes and found the demon staring at him with something like fondness in his eyes (sunglasses having been abandoned after hour one). 

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Anyway. This Pullman fellow thinks it was a good thing that the humans left the garden. He seems to think it was beneficial for them to grow up and move on. But I’m not so sure. They were...well, they were so frightened. And look at all they’ve had to endure since then.”

“Hey, you’re the one who gave them that sword,” Crowley reminded him, as though he needed reminding of this. “You helped them with the whole moving on process.”

“That doesn’t mean I wasn’t worried for them. I’d rather they stayed in the garden, frankly.”

“Well, you could have...I dunno, pushed them back in or something. To keep them safe.”

“Goodness, no, that would have been so much worse,” said Aziraphale, eyes wide. “That would have been directly defying the Almighty’s decree. She said they had to go, so they simply had to go. Disagreeing is one thing, but disobeying is quite another.”

“Hmm, yes,” said Crowley, swirling the dregs of his wine around the bottom of his glass. “But you did defy Her anyway, didn’t you?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Yes. No one really knows that, I suppose. Aside from you, of course. You know, after all these years...well, aren’t you supposed to be adding to the legions of Hell?”

Crowley considered this and made a noncommittal sound. “Maybe? Unclear. Not in my official duties, at least.” 

“Well, has it ever occurred to you that you have easy prey within your grasp?” said Aziraphale. “You could tell someone about what I did, and I would fall.”

“I don’t want you to fall,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale stared at him, surprised by how steady and sober his gaze was all of a sudden. There was no crooked grin, no sarcastic undertone. He was perfectly serious about this, and something about that frightened Aziraphale. After what felt like a very long time, he dragged his gaze away from Crowley and flipped the pages of the book in his lap. 

“I’m rather a bad angel.”

“You’re not,” said Crowley.

“I read wicked books and enjoy them.”

“But you did still report them.”

“Yes, and a fat lot of good that did.”

“They didn’t give you any assignments? Anything at all to combat these terribly wicked books?”

Aziraphale glanced back at his computer, and then back at Crowley. “Gabriel said I should buy some Narnia books, to sell here and spread the good word.”

Crowley just barely choked back a laugh and followed it with a large swig of wine. “Are you going to?”

Aziraphale fidgeted in his chair. “I was in the process of buying them when you arrived. I...I just can’t bring myself to do it. I know they’re virtuous books that promote Heaven’s agenda, but, well. You know how I feel about _The Sound of Music_?”

“Intimately,” said Crowley, grinning. 

Aziraphale steeled himself and rushed through his admission. “I would rather watch _The Sound of Music_ on repeat for an entire year than try to sell those wretched books. At the very least, I might derive some enjoyment from Julie Andrews’ talent. There would be nothing, absolutely nothing, to relish in sending more of those books out into the world.”

Crowley laughed loudly, reaching for the bottle of wine. “Angel, you are _drunk._”

Aziraphale sighed and held up his glass for a refill. “I suppose I am.” 

Crowley filled both of their glasses, thus emptying their third bottle. As ethereal and occult beings, respectively, their constitutions were different from the humans whose forms they shared. After three bottles, Aziraphale was just passing the maudlin stage of his drunkenness and transitioning into something sloppier, more ebullient. As he took a sip from his glass, he watched Crowley and admired the lines of his sharp suit. He thought about him seeking out Philip Pullman, molding his ideas just to correct the record (and perhaps to get in several pointed jabs at Heaven).

“Why did you do it? Really?” he asked, studying the demon carefully. 

When he drank, Crowley became more fidgety as Aziraphale loosened up. In some ways, it was as though drinking caused them to take on aspects of each other’s personalities. But perhaps that was simply down to their spending far too much time together. Upon hearing Aziraphale’s question, Crowley stood up from his chair and walked around aimlessly, circling one of the nearby columns. He scrunched up his face and made a series of incomprehensible noises.

“I dunno, angel. It was a lark, it was fun. Pullman was dead interesting, and I wasn’t doing much of anything anyway,” he said, stumbling through an explanation. 

“But I thought you didn’t care about books,” said Aziraphale.

"I don’t,” said Crowley, shaking his head. “Don’t read ‘em, don’t need ‘em.”

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale, and then he was quiet for a moment or two.

Crowley eventually settled down, finding his way back to the chair just as a thought began rattling around Aziraphale’s brain. Somewhere, far at the back of his skull, his sober mind was telling him not to say anything. This was something he should keep to himself, surely. This was something that really didn’t need to be said aloud. But Aziraphale’s drunk mind was like a dog with a bone, and it stomped its metaphorical foot on the metaphorical neck of his sober mind. 

“What about that bit with the angels who were lovers?” he said. If he’d been more sober, he surely would have noticed the way Crowley froze. As it was, he simply barrelled forward. “Where on earth did you come up with that?”

“Er, I think that was one of Pullman’s,” said Crowley. “Came up with that one all on his own. Shit, is it that late already? I think we should call it a night, angel.”

Aziraphale looked up at him, bleary and confused. “Oh?”

“Yeah, ‘fraid so. Should probably go and check on my wankers. Bankers, rather, but y’know, semantics.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Yes, of course. Shall I see you out?”

“No need,” said Crowley, as Aziraphale moved to extricate himself from the couch. “Good talk, as always. Don’t forget to sober up.”

“Er, yes, rather,” said Aziraphale. He twisted around to watch Crowley stride out of the shop and shut the door softly as he went. It was an abrupt ending to what had turned out to be a lovely evening, and Aziraphale was left feeling baffled. His sober mind would fill him in later, mercilessly.

* * * * * *

Crowley had caught wind of Philip Pullman in the early 1990s. He'd been at Oxford for Hell, experimenting with widespread intellectual corruption. They would eventually determine that this was far too time consuming, and that they could do more evil through simple one-on-one temptations. Crowley disagreed. What was more, he enjoyed loping across the Oxford campus, loitering in the back rows of lectures, and getting theology majors all twisted around in their thinking.

In between his mischief-making, Crowley heard about Pullman, who was teaching at Westminster College. Apparently he’d let slip to a student that he was working on a writing project with religious motifs, and Crowley had been interested. He’d only asked him what the project was about, and then suddenly he was making suggestions. There might have been whiskey involved. Remarkable quantities of very good whiskey.

As he drove home from the bookshop that night, Crowley smiled to himself at the picture of Aziraphale sitting at his desk, subsequently enthralled and appalled by the book in front of him. He’d never imagined the angel might find his way to these particular stories, thinking that he was far too busy reading obscure medieval manuscripts and re-reading Oscar Wilde yet again. Now that he knew Aziraphale occasionally read more recent fiction, he wondered if he could find another author to influence, just for a bit of fun.

_~fin~_

**Author's Note:**

> Which authors, in the past twenty years, do you think Crowley has inspired just to get Aziraphale's attention? Leave your ideas in the comments. ;P


End file.
